


Hear Me

by Demon Dreams (ScribeAzari)



Series: Lost and Found [1]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Chains, Gen, Isolation, Pre-Canon, headcanons, references to canon-type violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 21:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17588921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeAzari/pseuds/Demon%20Dreams
Summary: Alone and trapped in the cell masquerading as his throne room, Bendy adds his voice to the ever-present whispers.





	Hear Me

Darkness filled the room, as it had since the ink had dripped over his eyes, but he could still somehow perceive the flickering screens hung all around. Tiny clips of happier times, snippets of his life before he’d been spewed into this strange and unwelcoming world on permanent repeat.

What was the point of this? There was nothing else to see around him, but he remembered. He’d had nothing else to look at but the screens and the lantern-lit, pipe-riddled octagon he was locked into, until the ink had left him with only the screens. He didn’t know why he could still see them, or if it was a good thing that he could.

The leather of his throne was slimy, even against his own inky form - how it had come to be that way, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Perhaps it had been thrown away, and only dug back out to house him. Idly, he kicked his heels into the giant, pointless gear his feet usually rested upon, seeking any sensation that wasn’t the gnawing hunger eating him from inside or the straining of his stretched-out arms. 

Cold metal, still somehow so cold after so  _ long -  _ it dug tightly in against his arms in links, binding them out against the pipes from his throne. It bit into his hands, holding them outstretched to either side - trying to move those at all was painful. Even flexing his fingers could draw at least a sharp twinge, let alone trying to tear away from his chains or break them.

He’d tried to escape, many,  _ many _ times, especially in the beginning. There was only so long he could yank against his chains before the pain grew too great. No matter how hard he thrashed, he tired, or he lost consciousness. Calling out for help did nothing - nobody had been listening for years, and why would they help him? They’d put him there, tricked him in with soup and lulled him to sleep with a song, then bound him and abandoned him to starve.

It was so  _ quiet… _ Sometimes, he tried to fill the silence with a hum or a song, or his half of an imagined conversation - it was still crushingly empty. He was made for a smile, song and dance, and a laugh with friends, but he couldn’t  _ move, _ and he was  _ alone. _

Over time, as he’d strained himself for any semblance of an escape, he’d begun to perceive inklings from outside his cell. Images flickering to life, dimly at first, but growing stronger. It was as though his eyes had begun to grow back, but in all sorts of new places. Desperate for any taste of something beyond his throne, he drank it all in, learning what lay beyond his walls.

He couldn’t hold onto many viewpoints at once - trying to do  _ that _ felt as though someone was taking a mallet to his skull with great enthusiasm. He could, however, switch between them as easily as thinking it. This wasn’t freedom, but it was the closest he had, and he  _ adored _ it.

Slowly, he became aware of a susurration, a multitude of faint voices mingling. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it was both eerie and comforting, less as though he was alone. The clawing emptiness in his gut lurched up to demand the images and voices to fill it, but he couldn’t reach either, and how could he eat them even if he  _ could _ reach?

Now that he could hear, perhaps he could be heard, too? He didn’t dare trust the hope, but he tried anyway, calling out raggedly for someone to set him free. This time, he was heard. Dripping figures fell to their knees, clutching their heads and wailing. Shambling copies of former foes chattered louder, to drown him out. Half-figures sank into their puddles to bubble. Wolves cowered in fearful confusion. An enraged angel lashed out at his nearest eyes -  _ pain - he was shattering - _ he fell silent.

Fresh ink dripped down his face, and he trembled in his chains, rattling. That had  _ hurt. _ He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to acknowledge whose face he’d seen twisted in hate. There was no rescue coming, just like always.

It was quite a while before he dared try again - and even then, he didn’t pour so much of himself into the attempts. Even though his shattered eyes had opened again, it had hurt too much to risk a repeat so easily. Instead, he whispered, hoping that someone would hear him, would listen to him.

Sometimes, he was almost sure he was getting through to someone, that they were hearing him - but to no avail. The shamblers paused for a moment, but then they just went back to whatever they were doing. The dripping figures were lost, and would wail to  _ him  _ for help he didn’t know how to give. The less said about the half-figures the better.

The closest he’d come had been with the wolves, reflections of his dear old friend. They listened, but though they tried to follow his directions, they became confused and lost outside the areas they knew well, and they were taken. He could only watch - he couldn’t protect them. That was a new pain, bleeding inside him. With chains in his hands, he might as well have one in his heart as well.

Though it seemed so hopeless, he couldn’t convince himself to stop trying. It was the only thing he could do besides let himself sink into the pain and the emptiness again. Even if he couldn’t guide them to him, the lost and the wolves were almost company, and he whispered to them anyway, trying to reassure them, to keep them away from the fallen angel, to feel as though he was making  _ some _ difference.

He was a little better at this, to his relief. Even the half-figures listened sometimes - though only when he tried to sing softly out into the whispers. The shamblers ignored him still, but he could live without them. They hadn’t given him the time of day even before everything grew so warped.

_ Snap! _ A set of eyes - a half-figure lunging - he gasped in startled pain. It took a few moments to recover his wits, but once he could, he stared through his stinging set of eyes to see what was going on.

His eyes were cradled by someone  _ new. _ So like the lost, so like the half-figures, but caught somewhere in between. The scene was different - had this new figure tried to rescue his eyes? The gurgling of the half-figures sounded close, and desperation laced the whispers rising from this new figure. He was cornered, and he was  _ thinking. _

A bright, newly awakened mind, crying out for help - he could make a difference here. Hope spiking within him one more time, he reached out to whisper to his newfound focus. Maybe this time would be different...


End file.
